Death and the Maiden

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Death and the Maiden Page 22

by Gerald Elias


  “Wouldn’t you prefer to spare your loved ones the anguish of watching you waste away little by little as your mind and body gradually disintegrate, like Daniel Jacobus? Wouldn’t it be better to spare them the heartbreak of deciding when to pull the plug?

  “Come. When I unbind you, take my hand and your end will be painless.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then it will be painful.”

  “Why didn’t you just do it painlessly when I was unconscious and get it over with?”

  “Your free will will give me great joy.”

  “That makes me feel much better. That way it won’t seem so much like murder.”

  “Murder! Manslaughter! Friendly fire! Abortion! Euthanasia! Suicide! It is all death. I am Death! I come to all of you, Yumi Shinagawa. I now give you the choice. Do not fear me. Will you take my hand?”

  Yumi remained silent. Jacobus held his breath.

  “No? I am disappointed. You will meet death, but on my terms, not on the whore Haagen’s, not on Kortovsky’s, not in a farce like Ramsey’s, but in purity and honesty. Listen!”

  Jacobus and Yumi heard the familiar simple piano chords introducing “Death and the Maiden.” Lensky sang the first stanza in a fragile, heartbreaking soprano expressing anguish and despair over the prospect of imminent death. In the second, in which Death reaches out with its icy hand, offering eternal comfort, Lensky’s voice turned deathly cold. Neither male nor female, it was no longer human.

  “Gib deine Hand, du schön und zart Gebild!”

  Simply put, Jacobus had never heard a sound like this. Not even the great Marian Anderson’s performance sent the chill through his body that Lensky’s voice now did. He felt the fear of death; he smelled the grave opening up for him. Lensky’s smell. He was pulled by the voice to follow its course. Lensky had unleashed a power in music that Jacobus had never thought possible. In disbelief, but hypnotized by the music, Jacobus felt himself giving up. He had always wondered why his parents, and millions of others, had not resisted. Now he began to understand what Schubert understood. What Smetana understood. When the inevitable is about to occur, why struggle? Why not embrace the end? He knew now that the “beautiful and tender image” that Schubert was talking about was only a metaphor; in reality, it was life. His parents’ life; his brother Eli’s. His.

  “Bin Freund, und komme nicht, zu strafen.”

  Lensky was right. He, Lensky, or Death—whatever, it didn’t matter—was a friend. What more did he have to live for? Arthritis? He had just given his own greatest performance and now he was listening to something far, far greater. What better way to end? Painless! And even if it wasn’t, it would take only a moment.

  “Sei gutes Muts! Ich bin nicht wild.”

  Yes, be in good spirits! Nathaniel—good old Nathaniel—will take care of Trotsky. Dumb dog. Ah, he’s not so bad. Poor Yumi, though. Still so young. She hasn’t said a word. But clearly, at her lesson she said she had no fear facing death. Good girl. And now they would go together. Jacobus waited with liberating joy for “Sollst sanft in meinen Armen schlafen!” You should sleep gently in my arms! And then his suffering would be over. Silently, he mouthed the lyrics from Schubert’s Winterreise, “Ich kann zu meiner Reisen nicht wählen mit der Zeit.” I cannot choose the time of my journey; I must find my own way in this darkness.

  “Oh, I went into a baker shop to get a bite to eat—”

  What the hell is that? Jacobus thought. Yumi’s voice? But now that he finally comprehended Lensky’s insight, why did she have to interrupt? How annoying. How disrespectful.

  “’Cause I was so hungry from my head to my feet.”

  It was the childhood song Jacobus had taught Yumi on the train, to the tune of “Turkey in the Straw.” But why?

  “Sollst sanft in—” came Lensky’s voice, a bit louder to subdue Yumi’s.

  “So I picked up a doughnut and wiped off the grease,” Yumi sang louder. “And I handed the baker girl a five-cent piece.”

  “Sollst sanft in meinen Armen—” Lensky sang, harshly this time, trying to overwhelm Yumi’s voice into submission, but the spell was broken. Jacobus, reawakened, shook its residue from his head. Like “Death and the Maiden,” there was only one more stanza. He now understood, and joined in.

  “She looked at the nickel and she looked at me,

  And she said, ‘kind sir, you can plainly see—’”

  They were in full voice now.

  “… in meinen Armen schlafen!” screamed Lensky. “You should sleep gently in my arms.”

  “‘There’s a hole in the nickel and it goes right through.’

  “Said I, ‘There’s a hole in the doughnut, too.’”

  Maybe I won’t be sleeping in anyone’s arms, at least not just yet, thought Jacobus. Maybe there’s still hope. No Nathaniel, but a little hope. He squeezed Yumi’s hand.

  “Shave and a haircut, two bits!” Yumi added for punctuation, but the sinister silence that followed was perhaps even more emphatic.

  “You think,” Lensky said, very quietly, “that your infantile humor will somehow change your fate. The only difference is now it will be painful. It is time.”

  “No,” Jacobus said in a moment of revelation and in a last-ditch effort to stall. “It is not the time.”

  “I cannot stop,” said Lensky, his voice rising. “Schubert directs me.”

  “You’re wrong there, pal! You’ve been operating under a false premise. No one dies in that song.”

  Lensky did not respond.

  “They’re just bargaining!” Jacobus shouted.

  “Idiot.”

  “Who’s the idiot? There are two stanzas. First the girl states her position and then Death propositions her. Right? But nothing actually happens to her in the song. No one knows what the hell is going to happen to her.”

  “But death is inevitable.”

  “That’s not exactly a new idea, Einstein. But we don’t know … we don’t really know … whether our damsel in the song is going to die the next minute or whether she’s going to live to be a wrinkly old hausfrau mit grosse bosoms, do we? And that’s part of the greatness of Schubert’s song, in my humble opinion. It leaves what is going to happen outside the frame of reference of the music and inside the mind of the listener. You’ve been operating under a false premise, meine Freund.”

  “Mr. Jacobus, you tire me with your academic pedantry. I think it is now time—”

  “Well, between you and me, pardner, you’re not Death. You’re just an extraordinarily talented young fellow who’s gone off the deep end and killed a bunch of people.”

  “A bunch?” asked Yumi.

  “Have I?” said Lensky, ignoring her. “I think not. I prefer to think I am sane and the world has gone mad. It’s a matter of perspective, is it not? Give me one reason you think I am sick.”

  “Try this on for size: ‘Evviva il coltellino!’ Eh, Peter?”

  Jacobus heard an indescribable animal sound boil up from inside Lensky. Then his voice rang out, again Schubert, now a strident baritone: “Will kein Gott auf Erden sein, sind wir selber Götter!”

  Jacobus understood the German: If there is no God on earth, then we ourselves are gods!

  Then came the onrush, accompanied by an inhuman roar emitted by Lensky that was the opposite of music. Lensky was upon him almost immediately, his hand around Jacobus’s throat. He heard Yumi, still bound, shouting behind Lensky, “Stop!”

  “Murderer!” she screamed in desperation. “I’ll kill you!”

  Maybe someone will hear us, Jacobus hoped, then recalled that the room was soundproofed and that all the businesses on the floor had long ceased for the day. The hands around his throat tightened like a vise. He tried to pry them off with his own, but Lensky was far too powerful. He felt the pressure building inside his head as his circulation was cut off and he could no longer inhale. He opened his mouth, but air could neither enter nor exit.

  Suddenly, he felt yet another pair of hands on his own
, pulling them away. He was unable to resist. Then he felt the fingers of those hands wedge themselves between Lensky’s hands and his neck. They were strong hands, these new ones, and determined. Floating on the edge of consciousness, he felt the pressure on his throat gradually ease until Lensky’s hands were off of him. Woozy and unfocused, Jacobus vaguely thanked Nathaniel for saving him yet again, grateful for the strong hands that a lifetime of cello playing had given him.

  The crash roused him. Nathaniel, who had not uttered a word, was grappling with the growling Lensky. As big as he was, Nathaniel would be no match for the powerful man more than forty years his junior. It wouldn’t last more than a moment.

  “Jake!” shouted Yumi. “Get off your butt! Untie me!”

  Jacobus shook his head violently, forcing himself into alertness. He felt for Yumi’s hands, tied behind the chair, as Nathaniel and Lensky continued to struggle, the thudding of their grunting bodies absorbed by the soundproofing of the room. Jacobus used his fingers, with whatever strength was left in his aged hands, to loosen Yumi’s bonds, and when those didn’t work, he used his teeth. Little by little, Yumi was able to assist in her liberation, first freeing her hands, then untying her feet.

  Jacobus heard her leap up and without a word fling herself into the maelstrom.

  The three combatants crashed onto the piano keyboard, igniting a cacophonous havoc of dissonant, clashing chords and cascading glissandi that would make John Cage blush. Jacobus rushed toward the fray, shouting incoherently at the top of his lungs, diving toward the noise, pulling blindly at who he supposed was Lensky, but he had little strength left. For the briefest of moments he grasped the overwhelming despair of impotence and almost felt sympathy.

  Someone was tossed into Jacobus, and they both tumbled to the floor. Jacobus fell against his violin case, and making a fist, pounded it in frustration. Yumi groaned next to him.

  “Yumi, are you okay?” asked Jacobus.

  “I’ll live,” said Yumi, pain etched in her voice. Jacobus was alarmed by her flat tone. He felt her hand clasp, then squeeze, his. He had no idea what to do next. Their only hope was Nathaniel, and Jacobus held his breath when he heard someone fall heavily to the ground. Who was the last to remain standing?

  “Fools!” roared Lensky. “All of you! Fools!” He began singing in a vindictively piercing soprano coloratura, swooping down with cascading, lightning-fast scales. It was a voice under the most extreme mental and physical control, but wild. Insane.

  “Chi temea Giove regnante

  Pria che Giove fulminante

  Cominciasse a lampeggiar?

  “Who feared reigning Jove

  Before explosive Jove

  Began to flash his lightning bolts?”

  Lensky finished abruptly, and Jacobus heard him plodding, snarling toward them. Jacobus, lying on the ground, gauged their relative positions. He tracked Lensky’s odor, which now stunk like the skunk cabbage that graced the banks of the Williams River near his house in the Berkshires. Jacobus had a cane, a rope, and a violin case at his disposal, and seconds to decide how he would defend himself. Clutching the bottom end of his cane in desperation, he sensed his adversary’s position, feigned swinging it, then extended the curled end of it until it caught on the back of Lensky’s ankle, and jerked with both hands with all of his strength. Lensky came crashing down with a howl. Jacobus heard his head crack against the floor, where he lay, stunned and moaning.

  “I think the recital may be over,” Jacobus said to Yumi. “You’ll be okay from now on.”

  “Nathaniel, what took you so long?”

  “Discúlpeme, Maestro Yacovis, I am not the person who you ascertain me to be, but first perhaps you can hand me the rope next to you.”

  “Oro! You’re not Nathaniel!”

  “God bless you for your perception, Maestro.”

  “What the hell are you doing here? How did you unlock the door?”

  “All in good time, Maestro. But first, the rope, por favor, before Señor Lensky makes the renaissance. He is a very strong man. Then we may catch our breaths.”

  Jacobus reached out with the rope that Lensky had used to tie up Yumi.

  “Ah, the justice of the poetic,” said Oro.

  While Oro was engaged in making sure Lensky was securely bound, Jacobus said to Yumi, “Hey, I’ve got another song for you,” circling his right arm behind her shoulders to support her.

  “Schubert?” she asked, her voice thin.

  “Better. Do you know ‘Around the Corner’?”

  “No. Teach it to me.”

  Jacobus cleared his choked-up voice.

  “Around the corner, and under a tree,

  A pretty maiden once said to me:

  ‘Who would marry you, I would like to know,

  ’Cause every time I look at your face it makes me want to go

  Around the corner, and under a—’”

  “Jake,” said Yumi, coughing, “don’t. You’re making me laugh.”

  “Make you laugh?” he asked. “But I was planning on singing that at Carnegie Hall … next time.”

  “I think we are now safe,” said Oro. “I have tied his hands together and his legs to the piano. But before I take the opportunity to congratulate the two of you on your fine performance of ‘Death and the Maiden’ tonight I must call my colleague, Lieutenant Malachi, to take the possession of Señor Lensky. Is there a phone I may use?”

  “If you knew to come here, why didn’t Malachi?”

  “The good lieutenant is at the residence of the unfortunate Señora Lenskaya. It appears Señor Peter killed her and Señor Ivan between the final rehearsal and the concert. Señor Ivan and Señora Pravda were wearing clothing for concert. They apparently intended to play tonight. I think Señor Peter didn’t permit them. But more of that later. A phone, por favor?”

  “There’s one in the violin case,” said Jacobus. “It’s Yumi’s but it doesn’t work. I had it on for Nathaniel. He was supposed to come here once he knew where we were. I dialed his number and left it on the whole time.”

  “Are you sure you pressed Talk, Maestro?”

  “Ah, shit.”

  * * *

  Sergeant Ortiz arrived shortly thereafter. He and Oro conversed briefly. Ortiz handcuffed Lensky, still dazed, and before escorting him from the studio called for an ambulance.

  “And now I think we must all go to the hospital, especially Señorita Shinagawa. The injuries and the shock must be treated for this brave young lady, who played so beautifully and fought so courageously.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Yumi. “I’ll live.”

  As the ambulance headed for Mount Sinai Hospital less than two miles away, Jacobus asked Oro, “So now tell me. Why the hell did you come here in the first place?”

  “Well, let us just say that I am here in the unofficial incógnito, which is why I wished not to make me known to you. Number one, I desired to confirm if the large, limping man I saw at the concert in Lima was indeed Señor Peter. Number two, I desired to hear the New Magini String Quartet play ‘Death and the Maiden.’ It was such an occasion of history not to be missed. But it turns out that so much more has been accomplished in one visit to your magnificent city. How could I have guessed that you would be the first violinist of this great ensemble? It is my honor to know you, Maestro Yacovis. And to not only identify Señor Limper but to assist in the apprehension of such!”

  “But how did you find Yumi and me at the rehearsal studio?”

  “This is the easy question to answer. After the tragic demisement of Señora Haagen, I was standing next to you in the backstage of the Carnegie Hall. What a magnificent auditorium! If only Lima had such a—”

  “Oro! Tonight, please!”

  “Discúlpeme, Maestro. Since no one knew who I was, I simply pretended to be one of the workers. I have learned it is always easy to fit in when you just look busy. When I heard the Lieutenant Malachi was going to the home of Señora Lenskaya, I decided to follow you in one o
f your famous New York taxis. I assure you they are so much more cómodo than our ticos.”

  “Why follow me and not Malachi?”

  “The lieutenant had many armed officers with him. I decided to follow you in the unlikely eventuation you might need my small assistance.”

  “Then, if I may be so bold as to ask,” said Jacobus, “what took you so goddam long to get to us?”

  “Ah, Maestro, again you have found the heart of the matter! I told my taxi driver, ‘Follow that car!’ with the best sound of Humphrey Bogart in my voice.”

  “And?”

  “And he followed my instructions perfectly. There was only one difficulty.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You see, the taxis in Lima are very cheap. You can go almost anywhere for one or two of your American dollars. But here, I didn’t prepare so well. I offered the driver all of my solares, but he was not entirely felicitous with that arrangement, so we spent some time finding a machine where I could obtain the necessary dollars to pay him with my credit card. Discúlpeme.”

  “And how did you get in? Lensky locked the door.”

  “That was much easier. I used the same credit card. Policemen are almost as good as the thieves in opening the doors.”

  When the ambulance arrived at the hospital, Yumi, refusing to be wheeled in on a gurney, was the first to be escorted in. Before he entered the building, Jacobus felt a moist, refreshing breeze, funneled by the crosstown streets, blowing from the west. He turned to face it directly, hoping it would purge the misery of the previous hours out of him.

  “Just out of curiosity, Oro,” Jacobus said, “the first time I talked to you, you mentioned that the New Magini had performed your favorite Mozart quartet in Lima, but you hung up before I could ask you which one it is. So tell me, which is it? The ‘Dissonant,’ maybe?”

  “I am surprised you would not guess correctly right away, Maestro,” said Oro. “It is the ‘Hunt.’ Of course.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  FRIDAY

  “Evviva il coltellino?” asked Malachi.

  “Long live the little knife!” said Jacobus, massaging his sore throat. The three of them had been treated and released from the ER. Yumi hadn’t gotten off as easily as he had, but she was not complaining about her broken rib, sprained ankle, and mild concussion when it could have been much worse. Oro, bruised and battered by the much larger Peter Lensky, nevertheless managed to have had his suit cleaned, pressed, and deodorized at an all-night dry cleaner. No one had gotten much sleep.

 

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